


On Someone Else

by TheMidnightOwl



Category: Batman (Comics), Batman - All Media Types, Batman: The Animated Series
Genre: Batjokes, Childhood Memories, Cute, Fluff, I Don't Even Know, M/M, One Shot, established batjokes
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-10-28
Updated: 2017-10-28
Packaged: 2019-01-25 08:38:58
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,249
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/12527380
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/TheMidnightOwl/pseuds/TheMidnightOwl
Summary: His whole world is contained right here, right now.  His partner’s head in his lap, the faintest notes of pleasure more beautiful than the music.  His heart flutters.  Electricity travels up his fingers with every stroke.  The feel of the soft, full slips of hair through his hand warms his cheeks.





	On Someone Else

**Author's Note:**

> I can't remember what inspired this, but I think it had to do with The Cutting Room Floor. In Batman #871-873, Joker is directing a movie about the death of the Batman, and he has a freaking ponytail. So that's my best guess. This is just dumb fluff.

There are nights where Joker falls asleep first.  They’re very rare.  Bruce cherishes it when it happens.  Getting the stubborn man to let himself fall asleep can be near impossible at times.  His sleep habits are worse than Bruce’s.  When he does, Bruce fights his own sleep for as long as possible just to watch.  Joker looks at peace; all mania and stress vacated.  With his makeup removed and the gentle rise and fall of his breath, he looks human.  The sight brings warmth and a tightness to Bruce’s heart.   With the weight of his world off his shoulders, Joker is beautiful.

Getting out of bed for any reason - no matter how stealthy he may be - always wakes Joker.  He doesn’t move, doesn’t speak, just follows with his eyes.  Bruce can never place the look.  It’s not angry or irritated.  Not sad or nervous.  More sort of… vulnerability, maybe.  Vulnerability without fear or shame.  When Bruce crawls back into bed, there’s sometimes a quick flash of amusement.  Sometimes he will move closer to Bruce, rest his head on his shoulder or nuzzle into his neck.  Sometimes he scans Bruce’s face for what feels like forever.  Just watching, like Bruce watches him, except they’re both still awake.  So Bruce will run fingers through his hair and make light circles until it puts him to sleep again.

He plays with Joker’s hair a lot.  It’s so full and soft, and the color glows under any light.  On nights with a full moon, Bruce might leave the curtains open in hopes that the moonlight will catch him.  It’s happened once.  He stayed awake all night, rough patrol be damned.  

The first time they shower together, he’s too nervous to ask to wash Joker’s hair.  It’s something he’s done for girlfriends many times, but the desire was never this strong.  Joker’s vanity takes good care of his hair.  Bruce wants to care for him, too.  He wants to use his nails.  He wants to see what different stimuli do to this hypersensitive man.  He questions, he overthinks, he ends up not doing most.  Despite the permission he’s already been given.  So he imagines it and imagines it, and hopes that it’ll make him snap eventually because Joker wouldn’t say “you can do anything, I promise I’ll like it” if he had strong limits.  And he always makes it clear when he’s upset.  It’s just hair.  A harmless touch.  Right?

Joker changes his hair semi-often.  He’s quick to grow bored and always wants to look his best.  He keeps his signature colors but he’ll change from head to toe.  Always ready for something new.  This month’s new is not cutting it.  And the next month.  And the next month.  And the month after that.  The man’s hair grows impossibly fast.  He’s never seen Joker’s hair this long. 

Joker hasn’t been up to anything, either.  He goes out at night, but returns without a trace of dirt, a drop of blood, the smell of acid.  And Batman isn’t seeing him at all.  No threats, no games, no “dancing.”  Its been months now.  When he lets himself into the manor via the bedroom balcony,  Bruce observes him for any other signs of depression.  When he sees them, he’s unsure if he’s correct.  Asking would get him nowhere.  More likely it would make Joker shut down.  So he doesn’t ask.  He just pulls him in a little closer, holds him a little tighter.  And hopes that he’ll be let in eventually.  They both need to learn how.

Joker’s hair is down to his shoulders now.  He keeps it in a low ponytail when he’s thinking.  So, most of the time.  Bruce can’t help but snort when he thinks it makes Joker look like an indie filmmaker.  What would a world directed by The Joker look like.  And then his heart aches, because Joker could have been an artist in his past life.  Before the accident, before his one bad day, before Batman didn’t save him.  His elaborate schemes are always alight with color and displayed for presentation.  Meant to be looked at, meant to interact with, meant to evoke emotion - usually fear.  And is that not the objective of all art?  

When Bruce doesn’t see him for three nights, he makes a call.

“You better not be dying,” is how Joker answers.

“No, I - haven’t seen you in a while,” he responds lamely.  He tells himself that earned him a small but smug half smile.  

“It’s only been a night, dear, but I’m flattered you miss me that much.”  He doesn’t sound like himself at all.  His words are devoid of their usual edge.

“It’s been three nights, J.”

“Has it?” He sounds genuinely surprised.  “Hm.”

“Will you come tonight?”

Definitely a smile this time.  “That depends on _you_.”

Bruce’s heart lurches.  There’s the Joker he knows.  “I just want to see you.”

A pregnant pause.  Fear trickles down to his heart.  “Well, it’d be rude to leave my love wanting when he’s asked so nicely, wouldn’t it?”  There’s a smile in his voice, one that speaks of mischief and desire.  

He repeats to himself that this is not puppy love.  He’s not clingy.  Or smitten.  He’s just... not used to having company.  It’s been a while since last he slept with a partner.  It’ll pass.

Joker never uses the front door.  He climbs the balcony, all long limbs and powerful legs.  Any climber will tell you it’s all about lower body strength.  Pulling rather than pushing up is the quickest way to exhaust yourself, and fall.  Bruce may as well attach rock climbing grips to the bricks.  Joker would probably get a laugh out of it; but then there isn’t much he won’t get a laugh out of.

When he finally decides to grace Bruce with his presence, Joker is all smiles.  His clothes are his signature colors but not his signature three piece suit.  A dark purple blazer with matching trousers and lime green button down.  His hair is tied back in a bun.  Stray locks frame the left side of his face.  What use he would need to dress down for, Bruce doesn’t want to think about.  Not that he much can; his breath has left him for the moment.

“Hello, darling.”

Now that he has him, he’s not quite sure what to do.  He’s not tired - far from it.  Patrol tonight was so quiet, he left before 4am.  The desire for closeness dialed the phone, and now anxiety threatens to ruin it.  The boundaries of their dynamic are still a struggle for him.  They’ve been sleeping together for some time now, and it’s as intimate as it is sexual - sometimes more so, in his opinion.  Those last minutes before sleep and those precious ones before rising are some of his most cherished, but what Joker thinks of them is a mystery.  His mind is too erratic for Bruce to read as easily as others.

Joker, however, is not restricted by self consciousness.  His emotions and desires are out for the world to see.  Consequences do not reach his world.  So when his eyes cut up, down, through Bruce’s whole body, Bruce knows he’ll take something with him, no matter the lengths Bruce goes to hide.  He saunters forward, cocksure and borderline predatory.  Bruce’s heart flips and aches.  A finger crawls down his chest.  The touch tickles through his shirt; dangerous yet gentle.  Painted lips brush his, feather light and lasting less than a beat.  It’s gone before Bruce can register.  Meant to tease?  Tantalize?  Or perhaps just because Joker wanted to.

Joker sprawls out on the sofa.  Bruce never cared to have a TV in his room but the first time Joker spent the night he was personally offended that there wasn’t a TV.  Bruce installed one the next day, with a sofa and ottoman to match.  This is the first time Joker has shown any actual interest in them.  Normally they’re a little too busy - and then a little too tired - to consider what’s on.  When they’re together, the rest of the world doesn’t matter.  He’s stopped disagreeing with that.

He swats Joker’s feet so he can sit down.  Dress shoes fly past him as they’re kicked off.  He huffs in amusement.  This arrangement is fine.  Joker is ticklish and he’ll take any way to make him squirm.

Where he expected feet on his lap he is given a head.  Joker has to adjust his position a few times, but there’s weight and closeness and trust.  Green tresses waterfall down his thighs; he never saw the ponytail removed.  Hesitation, before he runs an experimental hand through them, letting his nails graze but not dig, the strands flowing around his fingers.  Soft and smooth.  Not characteristics likely associated with the Joker.  His hair gains some waves when grown out.  

The release of tension from the head in his lap suggests that the touch is welcome.  Curious, he uses his nails on the crown.  The soft, involuntary moan it pulls from Joker’s throat reverberates from his legs up his whole body.  The next travels up and back down again to pool in his lower belly, threatening arousal.  He pushes it down.  His nails comb down.  A knot catches his index finger at the end.  He winds it around to slowly work it out.  A trick he’s picked up on the way.

Joker is smiling.  Bruce can’t think of a time he’s stayed this quiet in waking life.  Apart from the little hums of pleasure and a quick giggle or two, he’s silent.  

Joker straightens up so fast that Bruce nearly jumps.  He produces a remote.  “Where’s Netflix?”

They resume their previous position, accompanied by the melodies of a musical Bruce doesn’t know and Joker has watched enough to lip sync.  

His whole world is contained right here, right now.  His partner’s head in his lap, the faintest notes of pleasure more beautiful than the music.  His heart flutters.  Electricity travels up his fingers with every stroke.  The feel of the soft, full slips of hair through his hand warms his cheeks. 

Peace.  Peace isn’t possible for him.  Peace was taken from him in a dark, damp alley way.  There were many sleepless nights spent crying in silence.  Nights that gave way to anger, and anger that turned to planning.  He filled in the gap left by that gun with fury and vengeance.  He trained in ways that almost killed him so he could be braver, stronger, faster, than he was that night.  Young and scared, he was helpless staring down the barrel of the loaded gun.  He gave up the promise of peace, companionship, so that no cild of Gotham should ever suffer the way he had.

And now it’s here in his lap.

Deep breath in, calm breath out.  He caresses the back of his hand down Joker’s cheek, down to his neck to rest on his shoulder.  Joker’s lips part.  He gives a light squeeze.  “Sit up.”

Joker sighs, content.  He adjusts his position to lay on his side, facing out.  And does not move.  Stubborn asshole.  Bruce gently shakes him.  When he still refuses, Bruce stretches.  He makes it look like he’s going to cop a feel, so when the insufferable git smirks, he puts his other hand between Joker’s shoulder blades and pushes him off the couch.  He lands gracelessly in a fit of laughter.  Finally he rests his head back against the sofa, with his knees drawn up.

Bruce’s fingers return to his head, combing with a purpose.  Joker leans in to the touch.  He can feel the blissful grin; he images it as the one Joker reserves for wen Bruce has done something on his list of things he’d never ask for.  He has no shame voicing it later, but for now the silence speaks for him.

He starts to use his nails on the scalp, digging to pull the roots to perfection and maybe just a little bit to make Joker squirm.  He hears the faint gasp, and grins.  He gathers it all in one hand, combs and combs until the strands lay soft and smooth on the crown.  Running the pony through his hands repeatedly may be unnecessary.  When he’s satisfied, he splits the pony into three even parts.  He resumes smoothing, one by one.

When they’re perfect, he holds the first two, then twists them together.  And switches.  Twists together.  Switch.  Twist.  Pull to tighten, just a little.  He’s leaving it loose, but he doesn’t want it to fall out.  Joker purrs when the braid tugs.  His head falls back a little more.  The music is not an outside presence.  It is part of this world that they have created together.

“When did you learn to braid?” Joker’s voice is barely more than a whisper.

_A hot, orange and pink sunset burns into the blackened forest on the manor grounds.  The fireplace is lit, holding off the first chill of a Gotham autumn.  He is sitting on the chair to mom’s vanity, watching as she gets ready for the Wayne charity ball tonight.  He picks the plum purple gown for her because he chose the dark purple bowties for dad and himself.  He likes helping them get ready.  She smooths the silk, then turns this way and that in the floor length mirror.  He tells her she’s beautiful, because it’s true._

_He gives the cushioned seat back when she’s ready to sit.  She starts with her makeup.  Brush after brush, matte after matte, he watches her transform herself from a queen into a goddess.  He knows her routine almost by heart.  She’s let him apply her blush before, but tonight calls for her more experienced hand.  She smiles at him many times through the mirror.  He can see himself, and his expression.  It’s an expression one wears in the presence of a goddess._

_She pulls a brush through her hair, which flows past her shoulders.  Straight and golden brown, it’s as silken as her dress.  Each swipe of the brush makes her hair wisp around her, like wind through a fairy’s hair._

_“Bruce?”  She turns to him as she hooks her sapphire earrings in place.  “Would you like to braid mommy’s hair?”_

_He grins and runs to find something to stand on.  There’s a step stool in the hall closet.  He’s good at braiding.  She’s shown him so many times, let him practice on her or her childhood dolls.  She’s taught him so many styles, but tonight she wants something simple.  “Just a French braid, Bruce.  You remember which one?”  He does.  He parts her hair, feels the silky smooth bundles slip through his fingers.  She likes it tight, so he pulls every other knot.  She holds a tie over he shoulder when hi finishes.  She runs a hand down the braid to settle it over her left shoulder.”It’s perfect, Bruce.”  She pulls him into her lap to kiss his hair, and straightens his bowtie in the mirror.  They stay embraced like that, her arms around him and her chin on his shoulder, and the thinks, not for the first time, that he never wants to grow up._

The turn of Joker’s head brings him back.  He looks away from Joker’s intense eyes.  “My mother.”  He, too, can only speak just above a whisper.  Joker faces forward again.  Nothing else needs saying.

Joker rolls a tie off his wrist and passes it over his shoulder.  His nails are the same shade of purple.  It gives Bruce pause.  He hesitates to take it.  “Wait.”

He combs the knot free.  Combs and combs, smooths and smooths, until Joker’s hair is relaxed again.  He separates the locks into multiple pieces and twists, twists, twists.  He wants it to be something else, something better.  The one he practiced the most back then, when it was important.  The one she only wore for the really important ones.  Elegant twists that move and flow together, pulling the eye down.  Much later in his life, he put together the reason she always wore a backless dress with this braid.  Joker’s hair is slightly too short for this, but it’s going well.  He can see her hair in front of him, amber and glowing and so very alive.  

He ties it off.  “Let me see.”

He snaps a quick photo and passes his phone.  Joker runs a cursory hand down the pattern, admiring the intricate weavings.  “Not bad,” he says, voice light and a little teasing.  The music changes as if to match.  He cranes his neck around.  The glint in his eyes is playful and sharp.  “What else can your hands do?”  Bruce smiles.

Graceful and deadly, Joker twists round and starts to push Bruce down.  His grip is delicate; too delicate for how many innocent lives they have ended with merciless violence.  The gentility he’s displaying tonight is more dangerous for Bruce than the Clown Prince of Crime.  “Oh wait,” he breathes, straddling his prey.  “I already know.”  His pupils are blown so wide Bruce is afraid they’ll swallow him whole.  Those eyes are wicked, and untamable, and fuck, so beautiful.  Bruce’s hands reflexively grip Joker’s hips.

A nose grazes his cheek.  Joker’s whisper is soft and dripping with lust in his ear.  “But, care to refresh my memory?”  He licks the shell of Bruce’s ear, hot and tantalizingly slow.  A shudder rips through him, followed by a burn that pools in his abdomen.  

Dangerous.  So dangerous.  

The air is heavy with their coupling.  They’ve caught their breaths, have settled for sleep.  The bed’s a bit of a mess; only one pillow survived.  It’s hot, but neither of them are getting up to open a window.  Once they’ve touched, it takes a force to get them away from one another.  Joker is laying half on top of Bruce, ear to his heart, one arm and leg thrown over in possession.  The sheets stop at his hips, the expanse of his marble skin bared and glistening with sweat.  His breath is strong, so still awake.  That’s fine.  When he nuzzles deeper into Bruce’s chest, he re-grips his waist, holding tighter.  The brush of his thumb seems to relax all the tension in Joker’s wiry muscles.  

The braid is still in.  A little messy, but it held pretty well without pins.  Joker is going to get bored of long hair soon, and that’s fine too.  This was his mother’s favorite braid.  Intricate and elegant, just like her.  He practiced it so much, hoping to get it perfect so he could do it for her.  But after that night, he never got to touch her hair again.  He still practiced.  He still wanted to get it perfect.  Maybe it was all for this moment.  He’ll never see this braid in her hair again.  But here it is on someone else he loves and it looks just as beautiful.

In a past life, he once said that they would be the death of one another.  He just didn’t know the death of them would come in the form of sweat and the joining of bodies.  Let alone that the killing blow of that would be what came after.  Nights spent sleeping without sex, nights spent awake just listening to one another breathe, the strong beat of their hearts, unable to hide the flutter in their chests at each move.  He never expected that their mutual destruction would come not from violence, but from love.

**Author's Note:**

> If you made it to the finish, thanks! Comments are always appreciated. <3


End file.
